


Series of Unfortunate Stumblings

by Wilvarin



Series: Series of Unfortunate Stumblings and other stories [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilvarin/pseuds/Wilvarin
Summary: 10 years before the events of the "Series" Circe's best friend's whole family tragically died in what everyone called "a daedric incident". Since then she ran away from home to avoid an arranged marriage, joined the Thieve's Guild, reconciled with her family but refused to go back to the gilded cage of her father's estate. An unexpected happens when she travels to Belkarth on the Guild's business...
Relationships: Alastair/Circe, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Series of Unfortunate Stumblings and other stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007013
Kudos: 2





	1. Not Just A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at summaries, bear with me, please.

The hot afternoon air was filled with cicadas singing and a faint smell of dry grass, flower blossoms, and strawberries. Children’s laughter rang across the garden and Circe blinked several times trying to get used to the white sunshine. That garden! That exact day, she realized, shaking her head in disbelief. That dream… She hadn’t had it in a while.  
Stepping lightly, she walked deeper into the garden to once again watch, and listen, and… remember.  
The boy and the girl were there, sitting near the fountain and arguing.  
“Stop it, that looks stupid! _I_ look stupid” the boy tagged at the side of a flower crown.  
The girl giggled. “You don’t! You look cute. Sit still.” She added another flower.  
“Why can’t we just get the books and talk of dragons?”  
“‘Cause we did it last time and I have won the bet!” Another flower joined those in the crown. “As always!” singsonged the girl.  
“Not always!” argued the boy. “I let you win, so I don’t have to see you cry!”  
“Are you now?”  
“Yes, I do!”  
“No, you don’t!”  
“Yes, I do!”

Circe could recall with a minute to minute precision every word they would say, every move they would make, as well as every time she dreamed of this scene.

The first time she had this dream many years ago, as a child, just mere weeks before her friend perished with his whole family in something that later her Nan called a “daedric incident”. The dream was back after that each time to leave her in tears on waking up from it. She remembered that one and only time when it changed, adding another detail to itself. Several years after the incident she felt the presence of another spectator in it, moments later noticing a vague cloaked in shadows figure behind the trees on the other side of the clearing. A couple of months after that she acted on her decision to run away from home to avoid an arranged marriage. Since then that Another, as Circe called the figure, became the essential part of the dream. Time after time she tried to get closer to the figure to see the intruder more clearly, failing every time, always facing an invisible wall, preventing her from getting a better view.  
There it was again, dark figure – standing and looking at the children’s playful argument. Slowly, carefully she moved, trying to reach it again.

Step.  
“You look like an elf from the book,” said the girl. “Nan has that book with fairy tales she read me when I was smaller.”  
Step.  
“You’re still small,” scoffed the boy. “You’re only 12.”  
Step.  
“Hey,” the girl lightly pushed him. “Almost 13 and I don’t need Nan to read me any more!”  
Another little step. That’s where she usually is met by the invisible wall.  
“But you’re still reading fairy tales,” teased the boy.

To Circe’s surprise, she could take another couple of steps towards the figure. And then some more. She could see it clearer now – definitely male, stubborn chin and pressed together lips. The upper part of the face, as well as the edges of the silhouette, were still blurred, but whoever it was he seemed to be mesmerized by the scene in front of him.  
Circe stole a glance at the children near the fountain. 12 year old her tucked the last flower in the boy’s hair and was now examining the flower crown on his head with deep satisfaction on her face. “You really look like an elf, but we will need to think of another name for you. “Alastair” doesn’t sound very elven.”

Circe blinked, suddenly noticing that the smell of strawberries overpowered everything else. She carefully reached forward trying to touch the man’s arm, and as if sensing her movement he turned to face her. “Who are you?” she whispered, blinking furiously and trying to make out his face, still being unable to see it clearly. The smell of strawberries and cicadas trills got overwhelming and the dream suddenly crumbled in pieces, shattering like glass around her.  
She woke up in her small apartment at the Belkarth Inn. “Time to get the job done!” She will check that abandoned house in the outskirts of Elinhir to see if its previous owner left anything of value behind and then head back to Abah’s Landing, she decided. She’s been away long enough.


	2. Unexpected Reunions

The floorboards softly creaked under Circe’s feet.  
“Well, isn’t it weird?” she muttered to herself. “The house is supposed to be deserted, the Guild’s finger man said it’s owner left for Cyrodiil months ago.”  
The house she was walking through looked nothing like deserted – loaves of fresh bread and baskets of vegetables in the kitchen, as well as the wine bottle on the table suggested otherwise. Circe made her way back to the entrance and was pondering over going upstairs when the door swung open.  
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” demanded a man reaching for the sword on his belt.  
It took Circe several heartbeats to compose herself.  
“My goodness! You scared my wits out of me, dear sir!” A charming smile bloomed on her lips. “I represent the Vanelian Trading House, I’ve been at Belkarth and heard the wonderful news that this house has new tenants, so I decided to stop by and ask if they, you, are looking to purchase the finest goods, straight from the lush and opulent provinces of Cyrodiil. The door wasn’t locked.” She offered a silent prayer to Nocturnal for deciding to wear her civilian clothes that day.  
Her eyes searched his face, hidden under the mercenary half-helmet, pausing briefly at the lips and jawline – they looked familiar, though she couldn’t put her finger on where she could’ve seen them before.  
The silence stretched.  
“We don’t,” he answered finally. The man’s voice was stern but, though his hand was still resting on the hilt of the sword, Circe noticed his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.  
“Oh, that’s a real shame! Well, I’ll be taking my leave then, my apologies for bothering you.”  
“House Vanelian, you say,” the man said suddenly. “I’ve heard of it. I’ll need to talk to my friend first but we might actually be interested in buying something. How long will you be staying at Belkarth?”  
All her instincts screamed at her to leave. As fast as she can but without arousing any suspicion.  
“Not long, I’m afraid. The caravan will be leaving in the morning.”  
“Can we meet at the tavern tonight then? I will let you know if we’d like to make any purchasing arrangements.”  
 _Act natural. He can’t get suspicious. If anything, I’d just redirect the order to father’s clerks,_ she thought, smiling brightly at the man.  
“Why, but of course!”  
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”  
“It’s Circe. I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight, m’lord.”

*****  
“So she just left? Just like that?” Garzur asked incredulously, shaking his head. “And didn’t ask _your_ name?”  
“I… No, she didn’t.” Alastair sighed. “Look, that’s something… How should I describe it?”  
He paused, looking for words. His initial shock when he heard the name of the trading house the young woman used was nothing compared to one he experienced when he heard her given name.  
“I know that name,” Alastair finally admitted. “Knew it from before, from.. my childhood.”  
“Figured that much, you looked like you saw a ghost.” The vampire rolled his eyes. “You realize, it might be a trap and she might’ve just used the name to lure you in it, don’t you?”  
“I do, yes!” Alastair grumbled, annoyed. That thought was fleeting, and he pushed it away, too elated at the idea of meeting someone from his past, and now Garzur pointed it out again. “She didn’t see my face though,” he reminded.  
“Praise the Eight!” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable Garzur uttered.  
“I know, all right? I just…”  
“Do you, really? I’m not going to stop you, my friend, but do try not to walk into any obvious traps, because you look more than willing to do so.”  
“I don’t _plan_ to!” Alastair snapped. “I’ll just meet her and see if she’s really the person she claims to be. And try to casually get more information about what Vanelians knew about the incident.”

*****  
Later that evening when Alastair entered the tavern the innkeeper pointed him to a private corner where Circe was comfortably lounging on the small couch near the low table. Hulking figure of the bodyguard blocked his way when he tried to approach.  
“That’s quite alright, Varah.” With a short elegant motion, the young woman gestured him to move. “That is the potential customer I was expecting.”  
Circe turned her attention to him. “Don’t mind Varah,” she smiled. “He’s still upset I left him behind in the town earlier today.”  
Still smiling Circe poured wine into two glasses and took a delicate sip. “I was actually surprised to hear that the house have new owners, last time we traveled through locals made it sound like it is haunted and will never be inhabited again.”  
“Well, what can I say,” Alastair took a sip as well. “My friend and I got a very nice deal, would’ve been a shame to pass on it.”  
Circe gave him a curious look. “You aren’t removing your helmet? Isn’t it too hot to keep it on, lord…” she trailed off.  
“Narrowgrave. And no, I have my reasons for it. Personal reasons.”  
“My apologies, I certainly shouldn’t have pried.”  
Alastair watched the young woman in front of him intently, desperately searching his memory to match her and the faint image of his childhood friend. Something was unmistakenly familiar about her – small gestures, the curve of her lips, the way she tilted her head – but at the same time different. _It’s been ten years,_ he reminded himself. _Of course, she’d be different. Different looks. Different person._ He felt a pang in his chest.  
“…thing?”  
He snapped out of his thoughts, suddenly realizing that he completely missed whatever she was saying. “Pardon?”  
“I said, have you discussed with your friend if you would like to purchase anything?”  
“Ah. This. Actually,” he gave her a sheepish look. “I don’t suppose you’d have a crate or two of 50 years-old Abecean brandy?”  
Circe’s eyebrows shot up. “A crate or _two,_ lord Narrowgrave?”  
“No, no, of course not. One would be quite enough.” Alastair nervously rubbed his neck. “One would certainly be enough.”  
“Even so,” the young woman apologetically shook her head. “I will have to place a special order with the House Vanelian, you understand, we wouldn’t just have such beverage and in such amounts with us.”  
“Of course.”  
Being done with the business matters they continued their leisurely conversation. Alastair shifted uneasily, trying to bring himself to turn it in the desired direction but not quite knowing how to do it. When at some point Circe waved her guard away he decided that it was just the moment he was waiting for.  
Alastair gulped down his wine, barely registering the tingling sweet aftertaste of it. “I might’ve left Cyrodiil many years ago, but I certainly heard high praises to your House’s reputation,” he pointed out as casual as he could sitting back on the couch.  
“Have you now? How long have you been away?”  
“Dozen of years, give or take,” he shifted trying to look as relaxed as possible. “It is always a pleasure to talk with someone from there.”  
“Long time indeed!”  
“Indeed,” Alastair paused searching for words. “News is scarce from where I’m from,” he started carefully. “And it’s hard sometimes to say what’s true, and what is just an idle gossip, but I figured someone like you would probably have heard of something like that. Have you heard of any appearances of daedra in Cyrodiil several years ago? I heard rumors of the whole noble estate being butchered by the monsters. What was the name… Daraguns? Daragis?”  
He watched as the young woman’s face clouded with sadness. “Daraquins. My family knew them well, Father was beside himself with grief when it happened.”  
“My apologies, m’lady. It seems I made you sad.”  
Circe vigorously shook her head and offered him a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  
“It’s past history, Lord Narrowgrave. You see, Lord Daraquin was one of my father’s closest friends, and I’ve known his son since I was just a little girl.”  
“Oh, have you?” he managed.  
Circe smiled sadly. “We practically grew up together. He was a little older than me – something he never failed to remind me of – but we were close, shared so many wonderful memories together! He was my best friend in the whole world.”  
Alastair’s chest tightened, a mix of nostalgia, sadness, and sheer joy from realization she still remembered him – still _missed_ him – flooding him and being almost too much.  
“I’m not sure if our parents ever planned that, us becoming such close friends,” continued the young woman. “It was only several years after… after what happened when I learned that they’ve been arranging our marriage.” She stopped herself mid-sentence, realizing how personal was the information she has just shared.  
Alastair blinked. Once. Twice. Marriage? Marriage! Their families intended them _to get married?  
_ _Tell her!_ He screamed at himself inside his mind.  
“I-it’s me,” he whispered hoarsely. “I mean, that boy. I’m him.”  
“What?” Circe swiftly stood up, anger evident on her face. “What are you talking about? What sort of a sick joke is this?”  
“No! It isn’t. It really is me!”  
“I’m leaving,” she spun around. “Your order will be forwarded to the House Vanelian’s clerks and fulfilled at the earliest opportunity. Good night, Lord Narrowgrave.”  
“Wait! Please!” His thoughts were reeling. Alastair racked his memory, desperately searching for something, _anything_ to tell her. Something to convince her and make her stay. “I’m sorry about your dress! it was my fault,” he blurted out.  
Circe froze in her tracks and slowly turned to face him.  
“W-what have you just said?”

*******  
“Circe Maria Augusta! What is the meaning of this?!”  
She stubbornly looked down refusing to meet her mother’s furious eyes.  
“Your dress! Your hair! Ruined!”  
“I slipped.”  
It was her 14th birthday – her first “grown-up” birthday – with dozens of guests and a celebration party. At least it was supposed to be, but…

_“You look pretty!”  
She laughed and spun around again, showing off the delicate silks swirling around her legs. “You think so?”  
“I do.” Alastair’s smile became cheeky. “Like a princess or damsel in distress from your fairy-tales.”  
She turned to him. “Am not!”  
“You so do! All silks, and flowers – if enemies had attacked right now, you wouldn’t be able to do anything, just stare, and gasp in horror, and feel helpless till some mighty warrior rescued you!”  
“I am not! I can outrun you even in this dress, and I’m far from helpless!”  
“Oh really? Then how about,” he paused considering the options, “to the pond and back – and if you win, I’ll take “damsel in distress” back?”  
“Deal!”  
Without second thought children darted out of the house._

_By the time they reached the pond they both were breathing hard and the hem of Circe’s dress and Alastair’s pants were covered in spatters of mud left after the morning rain. He outran her, of course, even if almost barely._   
_“It’s all this stupid dress!” Annoyed, Circe kicked the nearest grass mound. “If it wasn’t so long… Oh!” The wet ground gave in, she slipped, nearly falling over, but Alastair caught her hand helping her to straighten up._   
_It suddenly occurred to him that like this – flushed from running and hair wild – she looked prettier than back in the house when she was showing him the dress._   
_“I won, and you still look like a damsel in distress, but if it makes you feel better,” he added noticing her frown, “as a damsel who thoroughly kicked her offender’s most tender body parts before succumbing to distress and letting her knight save her.”_   
_“My, my, Lord Daraquin, aren’t you a smooth-talker?” laughed the girl, clearly mimicking her mother’s manner of speech._   
_Her fingers tighten around his a little – or was it just his imagination? – and he felt the blush creeping up his neck._   
_Circe turned to look at her dress with a sigh. “I’d better get back and clean myself before Mother sees me.”_

“You’re staying in your room, young lady! Your guests would have to have a party without you attending!”  
“Mother!” Tears welled up in her eyes.  
“End of discussion.”

Later that evening he snuck upstairs to the door of her room with a slice of her birthday cake as a peace offering.  
“Everyone’s missed you down there, your parents said you were not feeling well and won’t be joining the party.”  
“If it wasn’t for your stupid dare, I would’ve been there!” Circe’s voice was muffled by the door, but something told him that the girl was still crying.  
“Hey! You could’ve just agreed with me and skip the running to the pond!” He sighed. “Look, I brought you the cake.”  
“Just go away, Alastair! I don’t… I really don’t want to see anyone right now.”  
“Fine!” He glared at the door before turning and leaving, the plate still in his hands.

*******

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he repeated quietly taking a step towards her, equally embarrassed by the memories that short sentence brought and relieved that she wasn’t trying to leave anymore. “It was a silly childish bet and it ruined your first big birthday reception. If I didn’t bait you into that race it wouldn’t have happened.”  
“But how is it even possible?” Circe inhaled sharply quickly pressing her fingers to the lips in an attempt to hide her shock. “How?” she whispered again, her eyes searching his behind the helmet.  
“It is,” he sighed and looked away. “It is a long story.”


End file.
